


Here's to Hoping

by i_am_the_walruss



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2017-12-30 11:17:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_am_the_walruss/pseuds/i_am_the_walruss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hope is the dream of a waking man.</p><p>-Aristotle</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here's to Hoping

**Author's Note:**

> Did my own brit-picking, beta'd by [my wonderful girlfriend.](http://otaku-squee.tumblr.com)  
> Any and all comments/kudos/hits are very much appreciated.  
> 

_A cold Monday in January_  
  
  
  
Light filtered in though the wide windows of the coffee shop, doing nothing to warm John's trembling hands even as he held a hot mug of coffee between them. His breaths were even but his heart pounded, stomach flipped. He'd never admit it, but he was nervous. Dreadfully so. Not in the giddy, pre-date jitters kind of way, either. He was nervous in the _spill-coffee-down-your-chin-every-time-you-took-a-drink_ way. The _I-hope-he-doesn't-show-but-I-hope-he-does-at-the-same-time_ way. 

Bells on the door chimed and he looked up, breath hitching when he saw the blue scarf, the tweed coat, the once too-tight but now too-loose shirt, the limp, the grimace. The healing black eye, the almost-healed split-lip. The pink scar on the temple. The wrist attached to a man that, obviously, couldn't have been arsed to wrap it properly. The wince as body met chair, another wince as pale eyes met dark ones.

 

John set his cup down, "Thank you for coming, Sherlock."

 

It should be noted that, while it must have been difficult, Sherlock did try to form the ghost of a smile, "Of course."

 

They sat in silence after Sherlock's coffee ("Black. Two sugars, please.") arrived, John sipping away and Sherlock staring at it as if it were the reason for all that was wrong with the universe. He had a loathing in his eyes that was normally reserved for a few select members of Scotland Yard, and John knew that Sherlock was saving a special place in hell for the dark liquid in front of him.

 

John took a breath, letting it out slowly through his nose before speaking, "How are you?"

 

He knew the question was pointless. Sherlock did, too, sullen tone in his voice, "I've a black eye and a sprained wrist, John. I believe you can deduce how I am."

 

Sherlock was right, of course. He was always right. John knew precisely how Sherlock was, but he just wanted to hear the man say it. He wanted to hear that no, he was not all right and yes, he needed help.  
Then again, how could he fix what was not broken? Sherlock was not completely whole, but he was not a broken man, either. John could see the puzzle-pieces of Sherlock's being, held together by his fragile mind and enormous ego. Right in the center, though, was blank. One piece was missing, but the piece was large. John entertained the idea that, maybe, he was the missing piece. He wondered if Sherlock thought the same.

  
"You look rubbish," John said, plainly.

 

A dry laugh tore its way from Sherlock's throat, "I certainly feel rubbish."

 

Silence again. John wondered if a pattern was developing. Speaking, then all-consuming quiet. It didn't surprise him, not at all, but he had every right to let the sharp warmth of disappointment pool in his abdomen. Sherlock had been gone for a long, long bloody time and had only returned a short while ago and it was foolish of him to think that he would not be the only one trying.

 

_I suppose this is what I get for hoping._

 

He sighed, staring into his cup, "Sherlock--"

 

"John," Sherlock interrupted, eyes closed, "Can we _please_ not do this?"

 

John looked up, brows furrowing, "Can we not do what, Sherlock?"

 

" _This_ ," He said, gesturing dramatically to the empty space between them, "This whole thing. I'm not good at idle conversation, John, and I do not fancy giving it a go now. Not here."

 

John leaned back his chair, arms folded, "Where else do you propose we do this, then? What, did you expect we could just carry on where we left off as if nothing happened? You know I can't do that, Sherlock, you _know_."

 

Sherlock groaned impatiently, "This is why I don't bother with friendships, John, _this_ is why I have stopped bothering with _sentiment_. It isn't worth the effort."

 

 _Ah, there it is_ , John mused, _there's that Holmesian positivity. Can't say I've missed it._

 

He smiled bitterly, "Pity. And here I was, thinking that, maybe, just maybe, I was worth a damn to the great Sherlock Holmes." He stood, slapping a few bills down on the table, "Thanks, I guess, for choosing now of all times to prove me wrong." He shook his head, bottom lip threatening to tremble, and turned for the door.

 

 

Outside, the air was cool, biting at the tip of John's nose and ears, freezing his insides and the hot anger within whenever he took a breath. His hands clenched in his pockets, uncaring of the immature huff he walked with. He was well-passed cross now, moving dangerously into rage as he made his way through London, stopping only when law dictated and when he arrived at Hyde Park.

After a moment he came upon an empty bench, letting out a harsh, foggy breath as he sat down. The park was relatively unoccupied, save for a few bundled-up stragglers among the trees. Traffic was quiet, fresh January snow coated the ground beneath his feet. This was a spot he visited often to reflect on his life, his choices, his lack of social connections in Sherlock's absence. Many a time did he catch himself wishing, hoping as he tried and failed to claw his way out of the aching maw that Sherlock left behind. He knew not what he wished and hoped for, but whatever it was, it came back when Sherlock did. Or, rather, he thought it had.  
That is what's meant to happen when your best mate comes back home, isn't it? Happiness? Relief? Anything but the anger, the betrayal and uncertainty that John felt, surely. If there was happiness to be gained from Sherlock's return, why couldn't John feel it?  
Perhaps John clung too hard to the anger, to the emptiness. Perhaps he was childish enough to want Sherlock to ache, to hurt as much as he did. Perhaps he wanted revenge on Sherlock for leaving, for not being trusted with _why_. Perhaps he sought retribution for the cold bitterness of loving and being in love with a man that just didn't bloody _care._

  
There were black Oxfords poised toe-to-toe with his own Brogues, a stark contrast against the bright white of the snow. John's eyes dragged languidly up the black trousers, long torso and equally long neck, to the sharp cheekbones and curly mop, stopping, finally, at the alien eyes that enraptured him so.  
He wasn't sure what it was about them. It wasn't the way sunlight shines gold against their darkest parts, or how John could never tell what color they truly were, the constant mystery of green and blue and silver as they stared straight into his. It wasn't any of that, not at all. 

John stood, pressing his chest flush to Sherlock's, still caught in the net of his gaze. They said nothing, unspoken words between them as plain as the table had been not an hour ago. John's hand trembled as it reached the back of Sherlock's neck, drawing a sharp breath from his mouth, but never breaking eye-contact. _Oh, yes, there it was_. The emotion is what drew John in. The rawness of the eyes, the back-and-forth flick as they searched his face like a beautiful crime scene. The openness of a man that constantly hid himself away, never allowing anyone but John a glimpse inside. Each wound on Sherlock's face was a map, landmarks of the close-calls and danger he'd faced while he was away. The cut on Sherlock's lip was a dark pink that stood out against the paleness of his skin, inviting John to _come in, taste the adrenaline, the power. You know you want to._ And he did. God help him, he _did_.

 

"Sherlock," John murmured eyes once again on the taller man's eyes, "I think I'd like to kiss you, now."

 

There was a smile on Sherlock's face, "Do you, John?"

 

"Yeah," John grinned, tugging him down, "Yeah, I really fucking _do_."

 

 

Then they were kissing, and it was _scorching_. Years of pent-up frustration, sadness, unsaid words and anger spilled into one another through their lips, fists tightening around collars. The air around them went from frigid to fiery as their mouths slid against each other, long, leather-clad fingers of the good hand cupping the back of John's head, pulling him deeper into the endless ocean that was Sherlock Holmes.

 

John was the first to break away, but only a centimetre. "You great, cracking _idiot_." And they were kissing again.

 

Sherlock's mouth found its way to John's throat, lips moving reverently against the skin they touched, voice a low purr, "John, how, _how_ did we manage so long?"

 

John smiled, speaking around the gasps the taller man drew from him, "I don't know."  
Truth. He truly did not know how they lasted so long without this, this _delicious_ closeness that John had denied himself, _married to his work, his work_ , always on his mind. Now that he had it, _oh_ , he wanted to bury himself in it.

But, that could wait. Now, they were in a park and John had a feeling that they were being watched. He slid his hands up Sherlock's chest, pushing lightly against his shoulders. Sherlock stared at him, exasperation creasing his forehead, and John offered a sheepish grin. "We're standing in a public place, Sherlock."

 

Sherlock took his place at John's throat again, "And?"

 

"Sherlock, people will stare,"

 

"Let them," Sherlock responded, as if that were the answer to everything, bringing his hips tight against John's and oh, _Christ--_

 

John groaned and pushed Sherlock's shoulders again, with a little more force, "Sherlock, for God's sake, I am not having a rut with you in the middle of Hyde-bloody-Park."

 

Sherlock's eyes met his again, crest-fallen, "Oh. Oh, I just. I thought--"

 

"No, you maniac, I don't mean it like that," John lifted his hand to Sherlock's cheek, "I want to. Dear _God_ , I want to. But not _here_."

 

  
He received only a curt nod and a quite put-out frown from Sherlock, but they went to the sidewalk and hailed a taxi all the same.

**Author's Note:**

> May or may not include a second part to this story, depending, of course, on the feedback this receives.


End file.
